In The Everyday Constellations Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The song ends like this—don't you understand—
They don't open their lips again—
On their mascaraed of a parade, they go down into
The shrinking land,
Of mothers' lips and nursery rhymes—
Housewives in the nourishments of the feathers
Of their headdresses, go out into
Their front yards just so that they are observed by the
Sun—the forever voyeur—
Or for at least as long as they live—
Climbing those higher than high daises—
Drunken on the spirits of the denouements of
The earth—as the littlest of people follow their own
Personifications,
As the kings light off their retarded fireworks—
And until it is just a jungle of anybody's worth—
Spirits that flit light palm fronds above the earth—
Come down as dying wishes over
A Mexican fair—
Languishing in the bereavements of traffic jambs
In the everyday consternations of how life
Ever so happily brings you down.